Immortality
by Erin Kaye Hashet
Summary: The greatest reward in life is to be remembered after you are gone. Maybe now, Mulder and Scully finally will be.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Immortality  
Author: Estrellita (Erin Kaye Hashet)  
Rating: PG  
Category: S  
Keywords: Future fic...not really much else. Light angst,   
light romance.   
Distribution: Absolutely anywhere, just let me know.  
Feedback: EKHashet@hotmail.com  
Spoilers: Through "Existence."   
Summary: The greatest reward in life is to be remembered   
after you're gone.   
Maybe now, Mulder and Scully finally will be.   
Disclaimer: I don't own Mulder, Scully, William, and various   
other characters in   
this story.  
Author's Notes: Okay, when you read this story I want you to   
completely   
disregard all of Season 9. I started   
this before many of the important S9 episodes aired, so this   
story has   
nothing to do with them. Also, this is NOT a   
character death story, but some major characters are   
already dead at the   
story's beginning.   
  
Immortality  
by Estrellita (Erin Kaye Hashet)  
  
True to her word, she is there to meet me as I get off the   
train. She looks   
exactly as I remember her: tall, lean, short   
brown hair, bright blue eyes. I smile as I walk toward   
her. "Allison."  
  
"Jack," she returns, also smiling. I'm not sure whether   
some sort of physical   
gesture would make this moment more or less   
awkward. A handshake would be too formal and a hug a   
bit too friendly-   
after all, we've only met once and spoken on   
the phone as many times. But she's been such a big part of   
my life for the past   
few months that I feel as if I've known her   
longer.   
  
* * *  
We met one cold, rainy Friday night in New York City the   
previous summer. It had   
been a busy week at work, and I was more   
than happy to visit my favorite bar, which I limit myself to   
visiting once a week.   
  
The bartender nodded at me with a kind of detached   
recognition, as he   
always does. He looks at other patrons with more   
friendly expressions,   
the ones who I'm sure don't limit themselves to one beer a   
week. They're   
there every time I go there: a group of very serious middle-  
aged men in the   
back whom I secretly call "the Mafia"- I have no reason to   
suspect that they   
really are involved in illegal activities, but I avoid them   
anyway; a gigantic   
guy who looks like he's in the WWF and has more inches of   
skin covered by   
tattoos than uncovered; a man so ragged I'd think he was   
homeless if he didn't   
have the money to pay for all those drinks.   
  
When she came in I noticed her right away because, first   
of all, she was a   
woman. There are never many women in this bar. Her   
appearance screamed   
"yuppie"- she had on a tailored suit and heels and big,   
gold earrings. She   
walked over and sat next to me at the bar, which was even   
stranger- usually   
it's me at one end, the WWF guy at the other, and everyone   
else at the   
tables.   
  
"Can I get you something, miss?" the bartender asked her.  
  
"Shot of whiskey," she said, and I could hear the tears in   
her voice. I tried not   
to look at her too often, but I couldn't help but be   
interested in her.   
  
The bartender brought her the drink. I concentrated on mine.   
When I finished   
it, I stole a glance in her direction. She hadn't touched the   
shot glass. She   
was just staring down at the table, and this time she was   
really crying. She   
pushed the glass away from her. "God, what am I doing?   
I don't even *like*   
whiskey!" she cried aloud, and I couldn't tell if she was   
talking to herself   
or to anyone who could hear her.  
  
I looked at her just one more time. Finally, my curiosity   
took over and I   
asked her. "So. . .tough week?" figuring that it   
must have been a bad breakup, or maybe someone had died.   
  
She barely looked at me, still seeming lost in her own   
troubles. "Is anyone   
going to remember me when I'm dead?" she said unexpectedly.  
  
For a minute I wasn't sure if I should answer, but eventually   
I did. "Um. . .what?"   
I reminded myself that she wasn't drunk; she hadn't even   
sipped the whiskey.   
  
"Really," she said, and now she was looking directly at me.   
I involuntarily felt   
something waxing soft inside of me as soon as I saw her eyes.   
They were a  
bright, youthful blue, full of innocence and sensitivity, and   
now, of a child's   
shattered hope. "Who is ever going to remember me in a   
hundred   
years? I mean,   
I don't even know my great-grandmother's first name, so   
who's ever going to remember mine?" She looked at her shot   
glass as if she   
wanted to take a sip, but then didn't. "I just feel like. . .like   
when we die, we   
just rot into the earth for people to forget about." Her   
head rolled over to   
one side. "What *do* we leave behind when we die?"  
  
One instinct was telling me to get up and leave, that   
maybe she was crazy.   
But another told me to stay, that maybe she had an   
interesting story. The  
reporter in me always wants to hear interesting stories,   
so I listened to the   
second instinct. "I don't know," I answered her. Then I   
realized that it was   
a rhetorical question and felt stupid.   
  
The woman exhaled. "I'm sorry," she said, and attempted a   
smile. "I must have   
just sounded crazy to you."  
  
"Not at all," I lied.   
  
"I might as well tell you the story," she said, then paused.   
"I'm Allison, by the way."  
  
"I'm Jack," I said, and extended my hand, relieved that we   
weren't exchanging   
last names. If I said "Jack Martin" she might recognize my   
name from my *USA   
Today* column- and might hate me for my views. Not that   
many people do- it's just   
that when you're a columnist for a widely-read paper, it's   
pretty much   
guaranteed that not everyone is going to agree with you.   
  
"Jack. Well." She cleared her throat. "Here's what's been   
going on with me."  
  
And she began to tell me.   
  
"Back in the 1990's," she said, "two FBI agents named Fox   
Mulder and Dana   
Scully worked on a section called the X-files, a   
section that investigated unexplained cases."   
  
"Unexplained? You mean like unsolved murders?" I asked.   
  
"No. . ." replied Allison. "I mean like supernatural cases. . .  
seriously!" she   
cried in response to my look. "They investigated cases  
involving things that   
the government didn't want to acknowledge."  
  
"What, like crop circles?"  
  
"Yeah, but. . .it was a little more complicated than that,"   
she said. "There   
was this whole international conspiracy  
to cover up the existence of extraterrestrials."  
  
That had to be the most crazy, paranoid thing I had ever   
heard, but   
somehow I couldn't write her off as a crackpot.  
She seemed too alert, too put-together, and too sincere  
for that. "An,  
uh. . .an international conspiracy?"  
  
She threw me a sharp look. "You don't believe me, do you?"  
  
I paused. "No. . ." I replied slowly, realizing that as   
ridiculous as her   
story was, I *wanted* to believe her. "Actually, I think   
I do."  
  
And for the next hour she entertained me with endless   
stories about two   
agents named Mulder and Scully. About how Mulder's   
sister had   
disappeared when he was young, and how that experience   
had driven him   
to search for the truth, which he believed involved alien   
abductions.   
About how Scully, a bright young agent who was also a   
doctor, had been   
assigned to the X-Files to spy on Mulder, but had instead   
become his best   
friend. About how they had investigated cases such as   
a liver-eating   
mutant, a flukeman in the sewer, a man who controlled   
people's minds,   
a man made of cancer cells, a blind woman who could see   
through  
the eyes of a killer, a man who controlled the weather,   
and a jinnia-   
a female genie- who came out of a rug. About how a group   
of men called   
the Syndicate, led by a man known only as the Cigarette   
Smoking Man,   
had worked since Roswell to cover up the truth about   
aliens. About how   
Scully had been abducted and subjected to tests that   
left her barren,   
with a chip in the back of her neck whose removal nearly   
caused her to   
die of cancer. About how Mulder's father and Scully's   
sister had   
both been shot to death in the name of the truth. About   
how Scully   
learned that she had a three-year-old daughter just   
days before the little girl's death. About how Mulder   
was abducted by   
aliens just before Scully learned that she was   
pregnant with their child.  
  
"So. . .they were in love?" I asked, stunned.  
  
"Very much," she confirmed.   
  
She went on, telling me how Mulder was returned just   
in time to see the   
birth of their son, William, and since Scully had   
left the X-Files after maternity leave and Mulder had   
been fired, two   
other agents were assigned to the X-files. Scully had  
gone back to teaching at the FBI Academy and later   
became an assistant   
director. Mulder found a teaching position in the   
psychology department at a university. They had   
married, and when   
their son grew up, he followed in his parents' footsteps-  
he became an FBI agent and worked on the X-Files there.   
  
"But," said Allison, "the X-Files were shut down   
recently, and Will   
Mulder just does background checks now. Investigates   
big  
piles of manure." She rolled her eyes.  
  
"So. . .where are Mulder and Scully now?" I asked.   
  
Immediately Allison's eyes clouded over. "That's just it,"   
she said.   
"They're dead. Mulder died earlier this year, and Scully  
the year before." She took a deep breath. "And no one is   
ever going to   
remember them." Her voice was teary.  
  
"What makes you say that?" I asked her gently.   
  
Allison swallowed hard. "I just came back from   
Washington," she said,   
"trying to convince the city to put up this memorial  
to Mulder and Scully."  
  
"A memorial?"   
  
"They were hardworking, determined people," she said,   
as defensively as   
if I'd said they weren't, "who never got any kind of  
thanks or accolades, even as they were uncovering truths   
that no one   
else was courageous enough to look for. They deserve the   
respect in death that they never got in life." She wiped her   
eyes, which   
had begun to tear again. "I mean, I'm not looking   
for the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial or anything. Just a   
little plaque, a   
tree maybe, that would be nice."   
  
"And. . . they wouldn't let you have this?" I guessed.  
  
"No!" she cried, her tears again beginning. "I tried and   
tried, but I   
couldn't convince them that Mulder and Scully were   
important enough to have a memorial for. They said if I   
want a memorial,   
I have to purchase the land myself, and I don't have  
the money for that!" She started to sob. "All I want is   
for people to   
remember them now that they're gone, to know of all the  
great things they did. And it will never happen now," she   
choked out.   
"They're just going to rot away in the ground, and no  
one will ever remember them."  
  
She went on crying as I sat in awkward silence. I hated to   
see her so sad.   
I wanted to hug her or something ,but I'd only just  
met her. Besides, I didn't want her to think I was coming   
onto her, trying to   
take advantage of her in a weak moment. I wanted to   
speak some   
reassuring words, but I couldn't think of any. Finally, I   
said, "I'm sorry,   
Allison," very sincerely.   
  
She looked up, her crying halted. "Thanks, Jack," she   
said, and at last,   
she smiled. It was a beautiful smile, too, one that  
touched my heart in a strange way. "Thanks for   
listening to me. I   
appreciate it."  
  
"No problem," I said, and as I left the bar, of the many   
emotions floating   
around inside me, one of them was deep   
satisfaction that I had helped her, at least a little bit.  
  
* * *  
Fox Mulder.  
  
Dana Scully.  
  
The X-Files.  
  
Unexplained cases.  
  
Aliens.  
  
International conspiracy.  
  
Memorial.  
  
All weekend, I couldn't get these words out of my mind.   
I couldn't   
concentrate on anything else, even if I tried. I tried to   
watch a movie on TV, but it was about aliens. I tried to   
read a book, but   
there was a character in it named Allison. I tried   
to take a walk, but my mind kept drifting back to Allison   
and her tale.  
  
It was so strange. Never in a million years would I have   
thought that I would   
believe a story like this, about aliens and   
conspiracies and the government, and here I was, only   
briefly considering   
that the story might not be true. At any rate, I   
knew that Allison believed it to be true, or else she was an   
Oscar-winning   
actress in disguise. And if she believed it to be   
true it must be- for where would she have gotten all of   
those details   
otherwise?   
  
I had a vacation coming up, and having neither a wife and   
kids nor friends   
or relatives far enough away to visit, I was planning on   
spending a relaxing week   
at home. But a little voice kept nagging at me, saying, "Why   
don't you use   
this free time to investigate what she told you?"   
  
"No," I told myself. "It'll be a waste of time. You won't get   
anything done,   
and you'll miss out on that relaxing vacation."  
  
But what I kept coming back to was Allison's face. No   
matter what the truth   
was, I could tell that this memorial meant a lot  
to her. Those tears of hers had been so genuine and so   
emotional that I felt   
I had to do something to make sure she didn't   
cry like that ever again.   
  
She had said that Mulder and Scully "uncovered truths   
that no one else   
was courageous enough to look for." So I made up my   
mind to uncover some truths of my own. And maybe,   
somehow, those truths   
would help.  
  
The first thing I would do, I decided, would be to track   
down William   
Mulder. The Internet provided me with the phone numbers  
for a few different "Mulder, William's" and "Mulder, W's"   
but, as luck   
would have it, I found the man I was looking for on   
the first try- or, rather, his wife- at the number for   
"Mulder, W & C" in   
Georgetown, Maryland. She picked up the phone at   
their house and gave me his work phone number, which I   
promptly called.  
  
"Mulder," came the voice on the other end of the phone.  
  
"Hello, is this William Mulder?"  
  
"Yes. Who is this?"  
  
"This is, uh. . ." Suddenly I couldn't think of anything to   
say. Why hadn't   
I planned this out before? "This is, uh. . .my   
name is Jack Martin. I write a column for *USA   
Today*. . ."  
  
"*USA Today*?" He sounded confused and a bit suspicious.   
"Why are you   
contacting me?"  
  
"Are you, uh. . .are you the son of Fox Mulder and Dana   
Scully?"  
  
"Yes, I am. . .why do you want to know?"  
  
"Did your parents work on a section of the FBI known as   
the X-Files, a   
section that investigated unexplained cases, such as   
those involving aliens?"  
  
"Yes," he replied, and now he sounded more confused   
than ever, albeit   
also a bit impressed. "So did I, until a few months   
ago. How did you know that?"  
  
"Is there currently an effort being made to make a   
memorial to your   
parents in the Washington D. C. area?" I went on,   
ignoring his question. So far, all of Allison's information   
was checking   
out.  
  
He sighed. "Well, there was," he replied, "but now it   
looks like that's   
never going to happen." He paused. "Mr. Martin, why   
does this information concern you?"  
  
"I, uh. . ." I racked my brain and could only come up with,   
"I'm considering   
writing a column on them to spread awareness of  
this memorial."  
  
"Are you?" He sounded very excited. "That would be   
wonderful. It would   
help them to be recognized, spread awareness to a   
wider area. . ."  
  
"I just need more information," I quickly added. I could   
have killed   
myself for mentioning the column. Now I would get his   
hopes up about a column that would never happen, or   
worse, I'd really   
have to write it.   
  
"Oh, sure," William agreed easily. "Do you need an   
interview? I'm at   
work right now, but I can arrange a phone interview if   
you want. Or would you rather come down here to   
interview me?"  
  
An hour earlier I would have said that a trip to   
Washington would be a   
complete waste of time and money, and not worth it at  
all. Instead, I found myself saying, "Sure, I can come   
down to Washington. No problem."  
  
* * *  
At six o'clock three evenings later I found myself at   
the home of Will- as   
he had told me to call him- Mulder. He greeted me  
at the door, still wearing his dress shirt and pants from   
work. He was a   
slim man in his late thirties, of medium height,   
with graying red hair and sad, hazel eyes. "Nice to meet   
you, Jack," he said,   
shaking my hand. "I read your column. You've   
done some great work!"  
  
"Thank you," I replied with a modest smile.   
  
"Come in, come in," he said, and I stepped inside his cute,   
two-story house. In   
the kitchen an attractive, blonde woman was   
serving food to a baby in a high chair. "My wife, Claudia,"   
he said, "and my   
daughter, Caroline."  
  
"Nice to meet you," I said to them.  
  
"Let's go into the study," he said. "I think that's the best   
place."  
  
In the study he opened his desk drawer and took out some   
photocopied   
papers. "These are the X-files that my parents worked   
on," he said. "The agent who was assigned to them after my   
parents read   
through all of them, after he photocopied them. He  
then passed them on to me."  
  
I flipped through the files silently. Yes, Allison was right.   
These were   
nothing if not FBI files, and they documented all   
of the cases she had said that Mulder and Scully worked   
on, in addition   
to many more. Even though I hadn't thought she was   
lying, the discovery that she was really right was stunning.   
"Wow," I said   
finally. "This is incredible."  
  
"It really is," Will agreed. "I have to admit, I'm my mother's   
son. I inherited   
her skepticism. Even with all the proof in  
the world, I'll still take a scientific explanation over a   
supernatural one."   
He shook his head. "But there are super-  
natural explanations for all of these cases. Every single   
one."  
  
"Now, you said. . .you worked on the X-files, too?"  
  
Will sighed and closed his eyes. "I did," he said. "Up until   
six months ago.   
That's when they shut us down."  
  
"Shut you down?"  
  
"Well, you know," he said with a shrug, "the government   
has always denied   
the existence of extraterrestrials. So naturally,  
they have a problem with this section being open. Every   
once in awhile   
they shut us down. It happened to my parents, too, a   
few times." His expression became serious. "But this time   
I think it's for good."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well," he replied, "six months ago, we fell under the   
supervision of   
Deputy Director Alvin Kersh, Jr. His father supervised  
my parents." He gave me a wry smile. "My parents were   
thrilled when   
they heard that Alvin, Sr. died. But of course, even   
death didn't mean we were done with him. His little rat   
bastard of a son   
followed in Daddy's footsteps and shut us down. And  
he found a better reason for doing it than his father   
ever did."  
  
"And what was that?" I asked him.  
  
Will exhaled. "He asked us to show him proof of how the   
X-files had ever   
benefited anyone," he said, "anyone at all. And we  
couldn't do it." He shook his head sadly. "I mean, we've had   
culprits get   
away, or disappear, and even with all the cases  
we've worked on, we have no real tangible proof of any of   
it, nothing   
that proves the existence of aliens or monsters or   
anything irrational." He gave me a small, sad smile. "Besides,   
he was   
right, I guess. We've never really benefited anyone.   
We haven't saved the world from an alien invasion, haven't   
prevented nuclear war, haven't stopped killers from   
killing. We're useless."  
  
At the end of the interview I thanked him for his time. He   
said, "Let me   
know when that column's going to run," and I said,  
"Okay," silently vowing never to write any such column.   
Will went upstairs to change out of his work clothes.   
But as I was on my way out the door, Claudia Mulder   
stopped me.  
  
"Please," she said. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"  
  
I paused. "Sure. . ." I replied, surprised. "What about?"  
  
"What did my husband tell you about the X-Files being shut   
down?" she asked me.  
  
"Well, uh. . .he said that someone. . .his supervisor shut   
them down because there was no proof that the X-files   
had ever benefited anyone."  
  
"What else did he say about that?" she demanded. "Did   
he say he was useless?"  
  
"Yes. . ." I said cautiously.   
  
She swore under her breath. "Did he tell you who his   
partner was?" she asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"Well," she said, "it was me." She looked at me as if she   
expected me to be surprised, but after everything I'd   
heard recently, nothing could surprise me.   
  
"Really," I said.   
  
"Yes," she said. "That was where we met, just like his   
parents. I was assigned to the X-files, and we fell in   
love. We werepartners until I had Caroline. Then he   
was assigned a temporary partner, who was with him   
when the X-files were shut down." Her voice became   
hoarse. "I loved my in-laws," she said. "The X-files   
were their life's work, and they became Will's and   
mine, too." She sounded as if she were about to cry. "I   
can't bear to have my husband thinking that our work,   
his parents' work, was useless. That's why we're trying   
to get this memorial put up."  
  
I didn't know what to say. "Oh-"  
  
"Please," Claudia said to me, grabbing my arm, "do a   
good job with that column. If it won't get Will his old   
job back, it will at least give him some self-respect."  
  
*Oh, crap,* I thought sourly. "I will," I promised   
Claudia. I walked out the door shaking my head in   
disgust. *Jack Martin,  
how in the world did you trap yourself into this?*  
  
* * *  
When the column came out, everyone at work knew it.   
People stared at me in the elevators and as I passed   
them in the halls.   
"Did you *see* Jack's new column?" I heard colleagues,   
who then blushed   
when they realized I was listening, whisper about me   
to each other. My friend and fellow reporter Hank   
was not quite so subtle.  
  
"'But this is not simply about memorializing two brave   
people who valiantly sought the truths that no one   
else was courageous enough even to fathom,'" he read   
to me in a falsetto. "'It is about bringing in death the   
respect that was absent in the lives of these two people.   
It is about ensuring that the work of   
their lives is not trivialized or disrespected, but  
rather celebrated. It is about transcending the   
restraints that our own mortality places on us by   
allowing the memory of those departed to flourish in   
the hearts of the living, for indeed it is   
through memory that mere humans achieve   
immortality.' Man!" he said with a laugh. "You couldn't   
stand to write one more column about the economy?   
Had to settle for this poetic piece of crap? Where'd   
you come up with this?"  
  
"Well, a-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted me. "A girl told   
you in a bar. Man, oh man," he said, laughing again,   
"this is just like that movie."  
  
"What movie?"  
  
"You know," he said, snapping his fingers. "Richard   
Gere, Julia Roberts."  
  
"*Pretty Woman*?"  
  
"No, no, the other one," he said. "The one where she   
leaves the guys at the altar."  
  
"*Runaway Bride*?"  
  
"That's it!" he said. "The guy hears a story in a bar,   
writes a column in *USA Today* about the girl, she   
reads it, gets mad, they fall in love. Man, Jack," he said,   
"aliens and conspiracies? This must have been some girl."  
  
Surprisingly, the reaction to my column was much   
stronger inside the office than outside the office. We did   
not receive one letter to the editor about it. Maybe it was   
because the majority of America didn't know what to make   
of it. Maybe people read two paragraphs of it and then   
stopped. Or. . . maybe it was because they didn't need to   
write to me. I'd left Will Mulder's address at the bottom   
of the column, in case anyone wanted to make a   
donation to the cause.  
  
End Part 1/2 Immortality 


	2. Chapter Two

Immortality, part 2/2  
EKHashet@hotmail.com  
  
* * *  
In the next few months I didn't hear from Will or   
Claudia, which wasn't   
surprising because I hadn't given them a number. But   
one October day, a week ago, I got the most unexpected   
phone call of   
my life."  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Is this Jack?"  
  
"Yes." The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite  
place it.  
  
"This is Allison." She mistook my shocked silence for   
confusion and   
clarified, "You know, we met in the bar. I told you about  
Mulder and Scully. . ."  
  
"Allison. How- how. . ." I meant to say, "How are you?" or   
"How have you   
been?" but what came out was, "How did you get my  
phone number?"  
  
"You're in the book," she answered.   
  
"How, uh. . .how have you been, Allison?"  
  
"Never better," she said, and she did sound happy. I tried  
to imagine what   
she would look like happy. She did have that   
beautiful smile, but it had been a sad smile when I had last   
seen her. It   
must be a million times more beautiful when she  
was happy, I thought.   
  
"Why's that?" I asked.   
  
"The memorial is set!" she exclaimed.  
  
I didn't think I'd heard right. "Wh-what?" The last I'd heard,   
it wasn't   
going to happen at all, and now it was all set?  
  
"Your column!" she continued. "Enough people who read   
your column   
sent money so that we had enough to purchase the land   
*and* the memorial!"  
  
Stunned, I sat down in a chair. "Are you kidding me?" I   
truly hadn't   
expected anything to come out of the column. I'd just  
written it because I felt I had to.  
  
"The ribbon-cutting's a week from today," she replied.   
"I wouldn't kid   
about a thing like this."  
  
I didn't know what to say.   
  
"Can you be there?" she asked me. "At the ribbon-  
cutting?"  
  
I struggled to piece my thoughts together. "I, uh. . .  
that's a Saturday.   
What time. . .?"  
  
"It's in the morning. Ten o'clock."  
  
"So, uh. . .I'd have to take a train the day before."  
  
"I'm taking the day off work," Allison informed me,   
"so I'm taking the   
morning train. But if you take the afternoon train on   
Friday you can go to work and still be there in time.   
Think you'll do that?"  
  
"Uh. . .yeah," I replied, brightening at the thought of   
seeing Allison   
again, her tears dried and her smile wide. "I'll do   
that."  
  
"I'll be there to meet your train," she said.   
  
"All right."  
  
"I'll see you later, Jack," she said.  
  
* * *  
And here I am, standing with her in a Washington   
train station.   
  
"Want to go for a cup of coffee?" she asks.   
  
"All right," I reply, and we go to a coffee shop not far   
from the station.   
It's a cute little place, cozy. There are only  
two other people there. We order our drinks and sit  
down at a table for two.  
  
Allison stirs her coffee absently. She is quiet for a long   
time. Finally, she   
says, "My father loved my mother so much."   
She keeps on stirring. "She died, of a heart attack, and   
afterward my   
father just. . .stopped functioning. At first I thought  
he was just upset about my mother, but. . .it was deeper   
than that. He   
started having doubts about his entire life. . .his  
entire existence." She looks deep into my eyes. "He seemed so   
melancholy. He started saying he'd wasted his whole life on  
a selfish quest. 'Everything I've ever done has been for my   
own benefit, and mine alone,'he said." She bites her lip. "He   
said he was a horrible, selfish person who'd never done   
anything to make the world a better place. He said he'd   
never helped anyone, never made life easier for anyone."   
Her voice becomes quiet. "He had a stroke and died less than   
a year after my mother. In *one year* I lost both my parents,   
and my father died thinking he was a useless failure." Her   
voice is hinging on teariness. "I loved my father so much,   
Jack. It hurt me so much   
to see him like that, and nothing I said could make him   
feel better." She blinks, as if she is trying to prevent   
tears. "That's why I wanted this memorial so badly. I   
thought that  
if. . .if I could memorialize them, it would be like keeping   
them alive, in   
a small way, and telling them just how much they  
were worth." Her voice wavers. "Jack, I can never repay   
you for   
what you did," she says, very sincerely. "You have no idea   
how much this means to me."  
  
"It was my pleasure, Ms. Mulder."  
  
We sit in silence for some moments, sipping our coffee.   
Then I say,   
"You know, you could have told me your last name the   
first time we met."  
  
"You could have told me yours," she returns with a   
smile.  
  
"I didn't want you to hate me for being a newspaper   
columnist," I tell her.  
  
"I didn't want you to think I was just a girl who loved   
her parents," she replies. "I wanted you to see them   
for who they were."  
  
"Well, I think now I'm starting to."  
  
The bill comes and we split the tab. Allison gets up and   
throws on her fall coat. "You know, I always knew my   
parents named my brother William after our grandfather,"   
she says. "But I was   
never sure why they named me Allison, until one day when I   
looked it up in a baby book. It said there that Allison means   
'truth.'" She smiles. "Then I knew."  
  
* * *  
In the morning Allison picks me up at my hotel in her rental   
car and   
drives me to the site of the ribbon-cutting. I'm not   
sure what I'm expecting. A plaque, maybe, or a little tree. It   
can't be   
much, I know. The land and the memorial have been   
purchased, and that's expensive. Sure, Allison got some   
donations   
from a few UFO fanatics who read my column, but even   
though *USA Today* reaches a national audience, how many   
people could have   
had the faintest idea what I was talking about? I   
don't think there'll be many people there besides me, Allison,   
and the William Mulder's.  
  
I am wrong about everything.  
  
We pull up at a little park, with a gazebo, not one but   
several trees and a very large plaque. At the park's   
entrance there is a wooden structure with something   
encased in glass. And there are indeed people there- so   
many, in fact, that I have absolutely no doubts about   
where the money to finance this park came from.  
  
"All these people read your column, Jack," Allison   
whispers excitedly. "All of them donated money for   
this memorial!"  
  
I look at the glass case near the entrance. It houses   
my newspaper column, now laminated and framed in   
glass.  
  
I travel further and read the plaque, which is located   
right outside the gazebo. It reads:  
  
Dedicated to the memory of  
Fox William Mulder  
1961-2040  
and  
Dana Katherine Scully  
1964-2039  
FBI Agents who sought and found the truth  
by their children  
William Scully Mulder  
and   
Allison Samantha Mulder  
and those whose lives they touched in their brief time on Earth.  
  
I am awed by the number of people here. I can't imagine all   
of the reasons that they are here. How did they know   
Mulder and Scully? What drove them to come here? I   
approach the nearest   
person I see, a man in his fifties. "Excuse me, sir," I   
begin, and he looks at me with interest, "what's your name?"  
  
"Kevin West," he answers.   
  
"Did you know Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?" I ask him.  
  
"I knew them both," he tells me, smiling fondly. "Dana Scully   
saved my life."   
  
"Really?"  
  
"My name used to be Kevin Kryder," he explains. "When I   
was ten, my mother died. My father was in an institution,   
and. . .another man was trying to kill me. I won't go into it.   
But Dana Scully," he continues. "She was wonderful. After   
my mother died, she took me back to her   
motel with her so that I wouldn't have to go back to the   
shelter. And when the man tried to kill me, she got there in   
time and saved my life." He smiles again. "Later I was   
adopted, and she and I kept in touch for   
awhile afterward. She was so good to me. . .the least I could   
do for her was donate money for this memorial."  
  
The next person I see is a woman. She is dark-haired with   
bangs and looks  
to be in her thirties. I wonder how Mulder and Scully   
knew her- she   
doesn't look much older than Allison.   
  
"Hi," I say to her, extending my hand. "I'm Jack Martin."  
  
She smiles at me, shaking my hand. "You can call me Jenn,"   
she says. "Agent Mulder did."  
  
"How did you know him?" I ask.   
  
"He freed me," she replies. "On his third wish."  
  
My jaw drops. "You're the- the- the genie!" I exclaim. "I read   
about you in the X-files!"  
  
"Oh, yes," she replies. "You know that when Mulder   
could have wished for anything in the world, anything   
at all, he wished for peace on Earth?"  
  
I'm still staring at her in confusion. "But-but that was   
years ago. And you're. . ."  
  
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "He didn't specify   
aging."  
  
People here have all kinds of stories about Mulder   
and Scully.  
There are people who say their lives were saved by   
Mulder and Scully. There's a man in his early fifties   
named Richie Lupone, who   
says he almost died of hepatitis. "If they hadn't   
followed their   
instincts," he says, "I never would have gotten that   
liver transplant." There's a woman of about sixty   
named Amy, who says,  
"When I was fifteen, I was kidnapped. The man almost   
killed me, and  
it was Agents Mulder and Scully who found me."  
  
There's an elderly couple named Holman and Sheila   
Hardt. "If it wasn't  
for Mulder and Scully," says Holman, "I never would   
have gotten up  
the nerve to marry the love of my life."  
  
"Now our weather is always bright and   
sunny," Sheila adds, throwing an arm around her   
husband.  
  
Some people remember Mulder and Scully as heroes;   
others simply   
consider them good people. A woman from Oregon named   
Teresa Hoese remembers their concern for her when they   
worked on her case years ago.  
A retired FBI Agent from California named Kresge   
remembers working on a case with Scully and how much   
he liked her. One old  
woman named Mary Northern says she met Agent Scully   
only once, at her sister Penny's funeral, but that meeting   
left a lasting impression.  
"Penny had spoken of Dana to me so fondly," she says in a   
soft, gentle voice. "After I met her, I was so glad that she   
was the one with my sister when she died."  
  
An old woman named Susanne is here with her grown   
children. "My husband was a great friend of Mulder and   
Scully," she says. "He and his two   
partners, they're all gone now. But they were always proud   
to help out Mulder and Scully in any way they could. Great   
people, they were."  
  
One man named Trent says that Dana Scully was his   
godmother. "She and my mother were best friends," he says.   
"She was a great woman. I always used  
to wish she was my mother." Another woman named Leyla,   
who is here with her  
husband Gabe, seems to have more stories about Mulder   
and Scully than   
anybody. "I used to work in accounting," she tells me. "I   
knew all about  
all their cases. I was their biggest fan."  
  
So many people, so many stories. I make up my mind to write   
another column, this time about all these people, and not to   
care what anyone  
in the office thinks. But apparently, somebody else had the   
same idea.   
This ribbon-cutting is enough of a big deal so that a reporter   
from the *Washington Post* has showed up and is   
interviewing Will.   
  
"Yes, the X-files are closed down right now," he says. He   
catches my gaze  
and throws me a smile. "But not for long."  
  
When it is time for the ribbon-cutting, Will and Allison make   
a little speech. "I want to thank all of you for coming here   
today," Will begins. "I also want to thank you for your   
generous contributions that made this beautiful   
park possible."  
  
"A special thanks to Jack Martin," Allison adds, "for   
helping to spread awareness through his newspaper   
column."  
  
"Our parents were very special people," Will continues,   
"who worked hard and   
risked ridicule, unemployment, and even death to uncover   
the truth. And along  
the way they made a difference in the lives of many people.   
You are all here today because you know that." This prompts   
a large burst of applause from the  
crowd. "I am proud," he goes on, "to follow in their footsteps,   
and to join  
them in investigating their life's work. And like them," he says,   
smiling at  
Claudia in the audience, "I have found my soul mate through   
that work, and that   
is the greatest truth I will ever know." More applause, and a   
few "Awww's. . ."  
  
"We hope," Allison conclues, "to keep their memory alive,   
and that their kindness and determination will inspire others   
to become seekers of the  
truth." She raises the scissors and cuts the ribbon in front   
of the gazebo,  
and the crowd cheers and claps.  
  
After the ribbon-cutting, there are refreshments- cookies   
and punch that   
frankly don't taste very good- and lots of chitchat. Several   
adults are exclaiming over little Caroline Mulder.  
  
Allison and I stand together, silently looking at my article   
in the glass case.   
  
"Tell me, Jack," she says finally, "why did you listen to me?   
I must have sounded like an idiot in the bar that day, with my   
stories. . ." She shook  
her head in amazement. "How in the world did we end up here?"  
  
I try to think of an appropriate, truthful answer. "Well," I   
reply, "I knew  
it was a crazy story, but I thought that you really believed it.   
And, well. . .  
I wanted to believe it, too."  
  
Allison grins at me. "My parents would have loved you," she   
says. Before I know  
what's happening, we're leaning in toward each other, and   
our lips are touching.  
As we come out of the kiss, Allison smiles a huge, genuine   
smile. I have seen her  
completely happy now, and she is indeed absolutely beautiful.  
  
"Jack," she whispers, "I'm going to make sure nobody ever   
forgets you."  
  
The End  
  
Hope you liked it! Whatever you thought, please tell me.   
EKHashet@hotmail.com. I   
want to know for better or worse. Regardless of what you   
thought, though, I had  
fun writing this story, so I hope you enjoyed reading it. 


End file.
